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Shadow Of The Wind

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Shadow Of The Wind

Mackey Hedges

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Published by

BookSurge

7290 B. Investment Drive

Charleston, South Carolina

Co-Published by Sigman Publishing Group

Robert W. Sigman

Copyright 2010

By Mackey Hedges

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means

whatsoever, either electronically or mechanically, without the written permission

from the publisher, except for brief excerpts quoted for the purpose of review.

All the characters in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to

persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by Bob Sigman

Edited by Darrell Arnold and Buck Hedges

Cover illustrations by Joelle Smith

Contact: Sally Smith

Joelle Smith Western Art

Rosenbo Print Company

2660 NE HWY 20

Suite 610, PMB 302

Bend, Oregon 97701

Front Cover painting is ‘Old Friends” / Back Cover painting is "Ready to Rope"

(From the collection of Joelle Smith)

All images are copyrighted"

Printed and Bound in the United States of America

ISBN: 1456363417

Library of Congress Cataloging-in

Publication Data

Hedges, Mackey, 1942 –

Shadow Of The Wind novel by Mackey Hedges

Please Visit us at:

www.CowboyBooksandMusic.com

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To Buckaroos -

The handful of men

who know the only future

that life holds for them

is a dirty bedroll

and a worn-out saddle.

They have been around

for many decades

in one form or another,

and they live on today;

but this is especially

for the buckaroos

who cowboyed after Will James

and before the environmental

movement - A Vanishing Breed.

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Buckaroo Man By Dave Stamey

© HorseCamp Music BMI

Sleep in a bedroll of canvas The no-see-em’s feed on your ears

Wind blows the dust just like buckshot And I ain’t never seen it rain much out here Smell your own sweat in the evening Wash up at the galvanized tank Nearest town’s forty miles The cook here don’t smile

and all these young horses are rank

But come a ti-yi-yippee yi-yo On the back of my caballo

I whoopi-tie-one-on when I can My spurs they don’t ring much

I never did sing much But I’m a sure enough Buckaroo Man

Cold fingers stiff in the morning By noon it’s a hundred and three Five year old slicks in the canyons And never a hint of a breeze

Jug-headed hollow-backed ponies Provide all with hours of grief There’s snakes in the shade,

Cholla on the grade

But come a ti-yi-yippee yi-yo On the back of my caballo

I whoopi-tie-one-on when I can My spurs they don’t ring much

I never did sing much But I’m a sure enough Buckaroo Man

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Acknowledgements

From my very first conversation in 2000, Mac Hedges has said he had a

second story to tell. So, ten years later, Tap McCoy and Dean McCuen are

back in Shadow Of The Wind.

Through this period, Mac has worked for a few different ranches in northern

Nevada and California. I love the days when the phone rings and the first

thing he says is, "Can you hear me? I am up on a ridge and not sure how good

or for how long the connection will last?"

And then there are times I will try and reach Mac. The phone rings..."Mac

here." Mac, it's Bob...."Wait hold on" ...and I'll hear wild hoots and calls over

the phone. Then, Mac will be back and explain that he is trying to get a herd

of cattle into a pen for shots or up on a truck going to a feedlot.

Gee, and I just drive to work!

Over these past years, Mac has inked out more and more of the new book.

Then about a year ago, he ended up in a Reno hospital with a broken leg.

Seems he was corralling a group of horses... and as Mac explains it,

"sometimes they get playful!" Well, playful meant they kicked him. So, home

he went for a months rest. His wife, Candi told him to stay out of her hair!

So, he focused full-time to writing.

Shadow Of The Wind continues the saga and adventures of Tap McCoy and

Dean McCuen. And while, Tap colorfully told the story of their rollicking

adventures in his voice in Last Buckaroo; it was his viewpoint. In Shadow Of

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The Wind, we get the "full story" as told by Dean and more insightful

background into Deans life. Was their meeting, "by chance," or is there more

to it?

Dean provides added background to many unanswered questions and expands

upon the vivid character descriptions of some of our favorite characters like

Ben Bird and Donny; Tenna Ray and a host of old and new characters.

Once you start... you're just are not going to want to put it down! Enjoy.

Thanks to Mac, for writing a great sequel and allowing me to share in these

adventures. To his wife Candi, for relaying messages when he is, "somewhere

up in the range;" to my wife, Susanne for her support and back office

assistance in getting books shipped; to Bill Reynolds, Packy Smith, Larry

Maurice and the people of Lone Pine, California for your help in my

continuing education of Western heritage and your contributions in

maintaining Western Culture.

Happy Trails

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Acknowledgement:

Joelle Smith

The cover of Shadow Of The Wind, is again a tribute to one of America’s

greatest Western artists and sweethearts, Joelle Smith. Joelle left this world,

far too early, at the age of 47. She was a big fan of Mac, his writings and

Western Culture. We are very privileged to bring one of her favorite originals

to the cover - "Old Friends."

A number of years ago, a mutual friend of Mac and Joelle gave her a copy of

Last Buckaroo to read - she fell in love with it.

In 1999, Joelle made a trip to the Utah ranch Mac was working; spending a

few days riding along and helping the outfit with branding. Later one of her

more popular paintings, “Waitin’ in The Shade” came out; a portrait that

captures Mac's son youngest son, Sam, waiting in the shade of his horse for

his turn to rope at the branding.

I called, Joelle's mother, Sally, in early 2008 to introduce myself and talk

about incorporating Joelle's art with the publishing of Last Buckaroo. She

knew of Joelle's feelings for Mac's writing and generously offered Joelle's

original "Reata Man" for the cover and additional illustrations for the

chapters.

Sally, has again, generously contributed to Shadow Of The Wind. Joelle's

original "Old Friends" is on our cover as well as 13 beautiful illustrations of

horses and Western culture.

Thank You Sally...

We invite you to see the variety of Joelle's creative talent.

www.JoelleSmith.com.

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AUTHOR’S

DISCLAIMER

This is not a western shoot ‘em up type of cowboy story; in fact it really

doesn’t have much of a plot. It is a story I wrote for my own enjoyment

while I was healing up from a broken leg.

The way cattle are being run in the west is changing so fast that a lot of the

old ways are being forgotten as well as the way people talk and think. I

wanted to try and capture a little of this for future generations.

I make no claims to being an author. I am a buckaroo (high desert cowboy)

that enjoys putting his thoughts down on paper. Because I have no formal

training or education in the literary field my style drives professionals crazy.

In fact when the editor got hold of what I had written he almost had a fit.

He had more than a small amount of difficulty finding the correct spelling

for many of the western slang terms that are used. However, the thing that

came closest to driving him nuts was the fact that, as he said, “It is nothing

more than a series of short stories strung together by a thin thread of

unrelated facts!”

My answer to that was, “SO WHAT? It’s not supposed to be a novel. It’s a

little bunkhouse tale about the lives of a couple of high desert buckaroos. It

was written with the intent and hope of passing on information in an

enjoyable manner.”

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I guess what I am trying to say is that if you are starting out to read this with

the objective to criticize you are going to find plenty to work with. On the

other hand if you want to get a first hand view of real western life ranging

from boring to thrilling I think you will find it in these pages, at least I hope

so.

Like my first book, all of the fights, brawls and bucking horse rides are real.

The characters, although fictional are in part based on the lives of actual

people. Even the ranches in this story are distinctively similar to actual

cattle operations I have worked on or visited. In other words “This is the

real deal” even if the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope that you enjoy it.

Mackey Hedges

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my best friend, the one person that has stuck by

me even when I was wrong. A person that has shared my campfires in the

mountains and my isolated desert cow camps. The person that cleaned my

cuts, bandaged my bruises and hauled me to the doctor when I had broken

bones that we couldn’t handle our selves. The person that packed water

from the creek and chopped wood for the fire to wash my clothes. The

person that home schooled our kids, fed our leppie calves, and cried with me

when we went broke. The mother of my children, my confessor, my

councilor and as I said above, my best friend. The only woman in the whole

world that would have put up with the life that I chose to live. I humbly

dedicate this book to Candace Susan Hedges, the most unique woman that I

have ever known.

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Time Table for Shadow of The Wind

1. Tap McCoy was born April 15, 1909 near Grace Lake, Idaho

2. Dean McCuen was born on Feb. 20, 1950 in Elko, Nevada

3. On April 15, 1954, Dean’s mother was buried in the McCuen Ranch

cemetery, and Dean went back east to live with his Aunt and Uncle.

Dean was not quite four at the time.

4. Dean was drafted into the army on May 24, 1969. Dean was 19 years old

5. Dean was discharged from the U.S. Army on May 24, 1971, at Fort

Hood, Texas

6. Dean met Tap the first part of June, 1971. Dean was 21, and Tap was

62.

7. Dean and Tap worked at the Lost Lake Pack Station from June through

Oct. of 1971.

8. Dean and Tap worked for Ben Bird from the last part of Oct. 1971

through May of 1972.

9. Dean and Tap went back to work at the Lost Lake Pack Station the end

of May and worked there through Sept. of 1972.

10. Dean and Tap worked for the Wilcox Ranch from Sept 1972 through

April of 1973. The Imnaha Ranch straddled the Oregon/Idaho state line

in the northeast corner of Oregon not too far from the Washington

border.

11. Dean and Tap worked on the Flying D in South Central Oregon from

May through Aug. of 1973.

12. Dean and Tap only worked for the Turkey Track Ranch in Oregon for

three weeks in Aug of 1973. On August 29th, Dean almost beat Bill

Anderson to death, and they left the ranch in a hurry headed south.

13. Dean and Tap went to work for the Alamo Cattle Feeders (feedlot) near

Fresno from Sept. 1973 through May of 1976.

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14. In May of 1975, Dean signed Tap up for Social Security. Tap was 66

years old.

15. Dean and Tap went to work for Sam Winzlo on the Wilson Ranch in

June of 1976.

16. TenaRay Winzlo was born March 13, 1959. She was 17 years old when

she met Dean and Tap. Dean was 26 and Tap was 66.

17. In Oct. of 1976, Dean and Tap went to work For Dean’s Dad on the

family’s MC Ranch in northern Elko County, Nevada.

18. In the winter of 1979, Dean’s dad located TenaRay at an all Indian

school in Pennsylvania. It had been 3 years since Dean had last seen her.

19. June 17, 1980, Dean and TenaRay were married. She was 21, and he

was 30.

20. The summer of 1984, Mackey Hedges interviewed Tap and began work

on Last Buckaroo. Tap was 75. The book came out in print in the winter

of 1989.

21. The spring of 1999, Tap celebrated his 90th birthday. Dean began work

on Shadow of The Wind. Dean was 49 and TenaRay was 40. Their

children ranged in age from 17 to 12.

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Map of the Western United States

1. Demar, Arizona where Dean and Tap first met

2. Lost Lake Pack Station

3. Ben Bird’s Ranch

4. Wilcox Ranch on the Imnaha River

5. Flying D Ranch (Lazy J Cattle Company)

6. Turkey Track Ranch

7. Alamo Cattle Feeders (Lazy J Cattle Company)

8. Wilson Ranch

9. Fort Apache Reservation (TenaRay’s home at White River)

10. MC Ranch

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A Shoshone Winter Tale

Back in the days when animals roamed the earth like men, Coyote went

hunting to find food to feed his family. He took his bow and went out into

the snow. It was very cold, and the snow was deep. Coyote wanted to stay

inside where it was warm, but his family had not eaten for many days, so he

went out into the cold.

A little ways from his camp, he came on the tracks of Da-bo, the rabbit.

He followed the tracks until he saw where they ended at the base of a sage

bush.

Coyote went round and round the bush until he saw the little spot where

Da-bo’s breathe came out through the snow looking like the smoke from a

small fire.

Coyote took careful aim with his bow and shot an arrow into the base of

the bush just below where he saw the smoke from the rabbit’s breath.

The rabbit let out a loud scream, flipped, and flopped around in the snow

smearing the white crust with his blood.

Coyote went over and told Da-bo that he was sorry he had to shoot him,

but it was necessary to keep his family alive.

Rabbit knew he was dying so he forgave Coyote. He said, “Do not feel

sad Coyote. Nothing lasts forever but the mountains and the sky. The rest of

us go through life making no more impression on the world around us than

the shadow of the wind does on the valley floor. A short time after we are

gone no one will remember that we ever walked the land.”

Lom ishie da (And the Rat’s tale came off).

I am writing this so that the memory of Brian “Tap” McCoy will last a

little longer than the shadow of the wind.

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Introduction to SHADOW OF THE WIND

Last week we had a party celebrating Tap McCoy's 90th birthday and the

tenth anniversary of the publishing of his story Last Buckaroo. I believe that

half the people in northern Nevada as well as many out-of-state friends and

admirers showed up for the celebration.

Mackey Hedges, the author that helped Tap with the book, was also

there. In a conversation with the writer that evening, I told him that I

enjoyed the story for its accurate portrayal of ranch life, but I thought that

they were stretching it a little to consider it a complete biography of a man

that I had come to love like my own father. I pointed out that there were

many things that Tap had related to him that had been edited from the story

and even more that Tap had failed to tell him.

Later in the evening, Hedges came over to where Tap and I were

entertaining a few guests and prompted the two of us to tell the group some

additional adventures that we had shared. Before long, Tap and I had quite

an audience as we reminisced and relived stories from our lives, both before

and after we met.

After watching the obvious enjoyment that the assembled group seemed

to derive from the things that they were hearing, Mackey jokingly suggested

that I write my own story. Later, he told my wife that he was serious and felt

that my story had the potential of becoming even more popular than his

book. He promised her that if she could get me to finish it, he would help

with the editing and make every attempt to get it published.

Since the party, I have been goaded by Tap, nagged by my wife and

encouraged by friends to complete my version of our little Wild West tale. In

the end, I came up with what I believe is a story that will be of interest to the

many fans of Tap's book, Last Buckaroo.

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I started my version of this narrative by giving a brief autobiographical

outline of my family's history followed by some stories from my own early

life.

I did the same for Tap. I felt that this was important as it gives the reader

some idea of why he and I acted and reacted the way we did to the different

events that took place later on in the story.

I followed that by relating more wrecks and adventures that Tap and I

shared that were either intentionally omitted from Last Buckaroo or not

remembered by Tap at the time of his taped interviews.

With all that having been said, why don't you get a big cup of coffee,

find a nice, comfortable chair, lean back and relax while I tell you about the

west, the way it once was and now is.

Dean McCuen

MC Ranch

Tuscarora, Nevada

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CHAPTER 1

It was my great grandfather Thomas Bains McCuen that laid the

foundation for this ranch. We know only a little about him. I know that he

came from Ireland to work on the railroad. When the east and west lines met

at Promontory Point, Utah in May of 1869, he jumped on the first train

headed west.

I’ve been told that Thomas went all the way to the west coast before

returning to the deserts of Nevada. During that time he worked at a variety

of jobs ranging from mining to blacksmithing. However, he eventually ended

up working for a sheep man named Taylor somewhere around Tuscarora,

Nevada.

While herding his band in the foothills below the Independence

Mountains he made the decision to file a homestead on a piece of ground

that ran along House Creek.

The homestead in the middle of his sheep range did not make Mr. Taylor

too happy. However, there appears to be little that he could do about it.

Over the next few years county court records contain a variety of minor

lawsuits between the two men with all but one coming out in favor of

Thomas McCuen.

I have no idea where he got the money or the animals to stock the place,

but by the time that he married my great grandmother, Maria Ann

Tumanello, Thomas had a respectable little spread put together. He had also

built a livable, but small, two-room log cabin.

Great Granddad not only had a house built by the time he got married,

but he had also built a log barn, a set of pole corrals, a smoke house and dug

a root cellar in the bank of the creek where he got the dirt for the roofs of

the house and barn.

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The cellar has caved in, and the corrals and smoke house have lost the

battle with time but we still use the original cabin for storing salt and trace

mineral. We had to jack it up a few years ago and replace the lower layer of

logs as the original ones had rotted very badly. My father replaced the roof

with a metal one before I was born.

Thomas’s wife, Maria Ann, had been born in New York, but her parents

were both from Italy. Her father had also come west to work on the railroad

but had eventually opened a grocery store in Elko.

We have an old tintype photograph of Maria Ann taken on her wedding

day. She was truly a beautiful woman. How she had managed to reach the

age of 26 without marrying is hard to figure out. It’s also hard to figure out

why she chose or agreed to marry a poor, illiterate, Irish homesteader when

she obviously could have had her choice of the more prominent, eligible,

businessmen of the city.

The county records show that they were married on June 1, 1872, in the

Catholic Church in Elko. The records also show that they took out an

additional homestead in Maria Ann’s name less than a month later.

That homestead adjoined Great Grandpa’s on the north side and took in

land along Taylor Creek. Those two pieces of deeded property gave the

McCuens a total of 340 acres made up primarily of sub-irrigated creek

bottoms. It also gave them the right to run as many cattle on the federal

lands as they could put up hay to winter.

The County records only indicate that they were running 100 head of

cattle and five horses but everyone lied about their property assessments in

those days to avoid paying higher taxes. My guess is that they were probably

running closer to 300 head of cattle and who knows how many horses.

The two of them had a tribe of kids, but I have no idea what the actual

number was. Some of them were baptized in Elko while others seem to have

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missed out completely on the religious formalities. I say this because every

year we have people show up here at the ranch claiming to be the grandchild

of one of Great Grandpa and Great Grandma’s kids that we have never

heard of.

Right now, as near as we can tell, they must have had at least ten

children that lived to raise families of their own. And, who knows how may

died in infancy.

My grandfather, Thomas Anthony McCuen was the oldest of the

children, born on November 26, 1873. As was customary in those days, he

inherited “the whole enchilada” when Great Grandpa passed away.

When he was young, everyone called him Tommy, but, as he got older,

he came to be known as Tony. Some people referred to him as Big Tony

because of his size.

I never knew him, but from what I’ve heard and have been able to put

together Grandpa Tony inherited the negative traits of both the ethnic

groups from which he sprang. Like many Irishmen, he seemed to like to

fight, and, like a lot of Italians, he was hot headed and easily provoked. This

didn’t help to make him very popular with his neighbors or the people that

he had to deal with.

Although few people that actually knew him are alive today, I am told he

was something of a local legend in his day. However, legend or not, if only

half of the stories about him are true, Tony must have been a tough old

codger and somewhat dangerous.

It was Grandpa Tony who built the ranch into what it now is. He bought out

his neighbors when he could, fought the sheep men when he had to and

drove off the homesteaders that encroached and tried to settle on what he

claimed as his range.

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By the time he was forty, he had acquired several thousand acres of

deeded land, had grazing rights on hundreds of thousands of acres of federal

and state lands and was running around 5,000 head of mother cows. No one

knows how many yearlings and two-year-old cattle he had nor is there any

accurate record of the number of horses that were on the ranch

But, more importantly to me was the fact that even the people that didn’t

like him had to admit that Grandpa McCuen was not only a first rate

cowman but was also one hell of a buckaroo.

My father said that Grandpa Tony left home to work on the neighboring

Garrat and Altube Ranches when he was just a teenager. It was there that he

was first exposed to the old California vaquero style of cattle work.

Grandpa seems to have been a good student learning the fundamentals of

roping as well as making good bridle horses. After returning home, he

continued to practice the skills that he had learned. By the time he was in

his late 20s, it was said that there wasn’t a horse in Northern Nevada that he

was incapable of riding, and that he could throw a variety of fancy loops and

rope catches.

I don’t know if Thomas Anthony McCuen ever actually killed anyone,

but I do know that there are people that, even today, claim that he did. In

fact, my father has a couple of old, yellowed, newspaper articles telling of

Thomas McCuen being suspected of having some involvement in two

different murders.

Among the unprinted, local folk stories is the account of the time that

Grandpa and a cowboy from Tennessee by the name of Jackson Hill caught a

young sheepherder with a band of woollies up on Grandpa’s summer range.

One warm summer day, they are supposed to have ridden into a high

mountain meadow that we call Camper’s Choice. There, they found the boy

asleep by the creek while his sheep watered along its bank. Tying their

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horses some distance away, they silently walked up and grabbed the lad

before he even knew they were there. Hill tied the boy’s hands behind his

back, led him over to a big quaking aspen tree where he was asked his name

and date of birth.

Slowly and deliberately, Grandpa Tony carved the information into the

bark of the tree in sight of the wide-eyed kid. He then added the words,

“Hung July 12, 1919” And, with that, they strung him up. They let him

choke until his eyes bugged out and he was almost dead. Then they cut him

down and told him that if he was there when they got back they would finish

the job. It probably goes without saying that they never saw the young man

again.

The old tree is dying now, but you can still make out the scarred carving

in its gray bark:

Will McGregor

B. 1900

Hung July 12, 1919

Back in the days before the Taylor Grazing Act, there were a lot of tramp

sheep men and free grazers roaming around the country. For the most part,

these people owned no deeded land. They simply drifted their herds and

flocks from one spot to another, grazing it off and then moving on.

It was during this time that Grandpa is suppose to have ridden up to a

tramp sheep herder’s camp and started cussing out the man for trespassing

on his range. Suddenly, the door of the sheep wagon opened and a woman

appeared.

Grandpa fell all over himself apologizing for using that kind of language

within hearing distance of her. The lady accepted his apology and invited

him to eat with them. When dinner was over, and he was getting ready to

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leave, the woman gave Grandpa a sack of homemade bread and a couple of

jars of chokecherry jam that she had put up.

After mounting his horse, he sincerely thanked the lady for the fine meal

and the bread. He congratulated the herder on being lucky enough to find

such a good woman to share his remote existence.

However, just before he rode off Grandpa turned his horse and faced

both of them. It was at that point that he ended his farewell address by

saying that if the sheep were still there when he came back that way the

woman would be a widow.

Out on the most northern end of our summer range is a lone grave. It

lies next to a spring that we simply call Tip’s. The story that goes with that

grave is a lot more gruesome than the two previous ones.

It seems that Grandpa had filed on the spring a couple of years earlier,

but a homesteader by the name of Kimbol had squatted on the water and

fenced it off. When one of Grandpa’s riders came into headquarters to get

supplies, he told of checking the spring. The young cowboy said that Kimbol

had shown no intention of leaving when the buckaroo had told him that the

cattle in that area needed the spring for water.

Grandpa immediately threw his bed on a packhorse and rode out alone to

pay Mr. Kimbol a visit. It took him a day and a half to ride to the little

homestead. When he got close to the spring, he worked his way around to

the backside of a nearby hill. He sat on the little rise above the fenced-off

area for over an hour accessing the situation.

The small spring flowed from beneath the front of a rock face. It ran

down into a stock pond that Grandpa had dug. The overflow from the little

pond ran out and irrigated a small meadow of about two acres before

disappearing back into the thirsty desert soil.

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Grandpa saw six cows with an earmark that was not familiar to him as

well as several of his own cows. The six strange cows were feeding while his

cattle stood on the outside looking longingly at the water that was inside the

fence.

To Grandpa’s experienced eye this indicated that the squatter probably

brought his cows in each night for water. This also keep them from straying

too far away.

The little cabin that had been built sat no more than 30 feet from the

spring. Even from a distance, it was easy to see that the little shack was not

much. It was probably less than fifteen feet square with a dirt roof.

Tony noticed there were flowers growing in front of the shack and

assumed that the woman had planted them. He also saw a couple of filthy

little kids playing in the dirt behind the cabin. Nearby a man grubbed weeds

in a small garden patch while a woman carried a bucket of water from the

seep in the rocks to irrigate the little plot.

The woman’s hair was unkempt, and sweat streaked her dusty face. The

man had not shaved for a couple of days, and his gray stubble occasionally

caught the reflection of the sun. His clothes had been patched in a dozen

places yet, one of his knees still shown from a hole in his coveralls. The

entire family was barefooted.

When he was sure that there was no one else around and that the man

did not have a gun within easy reach, Grandpa rode slowly down to the gate

and stood outside until Mr. Kimbol walked over to talk with him. The

woman and children followed a respectful distance behind.

The whole family took in the dark complexioned, clean-shaven, long,

lean rider with the big hat, white shirt and black vest. The wife thought to

herself that the silver on his horse’s bit probably cost more than they would

make from their labors for the entire year.

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Grandpa was not much for long speeches so he never introduced himself

or went through any other form of formalities. He simply said that they had

two days to get packed and be gone.

Kimbol was either brave, stupid or had never heard of my grandfather.

He immediately started woofing back at Grandpa making quite a show in

front of his family. He obviously wanted to make sure that his wife knew

that he wasn’t going to be intimidated by any big-time ranch owner.

The man on the shiny bay horse let Mr. Kimbol make his speech, but,

when the nester was finished, Grandpa ended the meeting by quietly saying

nothing more than, “You heard what I said when I got here.”

Then he turned and rode slowly back to the nearby hill where his

packhorse grazed in the shade of a lava outcropping. The last the Kimbols

saw of him, he was riding casually back in the direction of the ranch.

We know all of these details from reading the deposition that Kimbol’s

wife and Grandpa gave to the sheriff a short time later. They’re still on

record at the county courthouse in Elko.

Kimbol was smart enough to take his wife and children into town, but he

was dumb enough not to also stay. They found him a couple of weeks later.

Someone had wrapped him in a blanket, soaked it in kerosene and touched a

match to it. I can only imagine how agonizing his death must have been.

Grandpa was the likely suspect, but he had an ironclad alibi. He did

however, pay the widow for the six cows that were left at the homestead. In

addition, he bought the lady and her kid’s train tickets back east.

Later that summer, Grandpa had his men re-brand the six cows with his

iron, burn the cabin, take down the fence and build a small enclosure around

the lonely grave.

When my wife, TenaRay, heard this story, she had me drive her out to

the spring. She asked me to help her clean up the area around the grave and

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put up the board fence in order to keep the cattle out. Then she said a prayer

or whatever it’s called when Indians talk to the dead.

She explained to Mr. Kimbol’s spirit that her immediate family had

nothing to do with his terrible death and promised that, if he would not

harm us when we were in the area, she would come every year and care for

his final resting place.

One year she had me take the kids with us and explained to them what

we were doing and why. She told them that, when she and I were gone it

would be their responsibility to come take care of the little spot.

I don’t think it made much of an impression on the little urchins. All

they wanted to do was play in the pond and eat lunch.